The Above

-Nine-

"You'd actually be pretty good, if you could listen," Calyx grunted, twisting his body to block the incoming attack. Metal clanged against metal as I drew back, positioning myself in preparation for a counterstrike. Rather than continuing the battle as I had expected, he dropped the sword against the ground, raising his hands in surrender. His hair was drenched, his breathing coming out in rigid pants.

"I give up! You're too stubborn! I'd rather actually kill you than continue!" he huffed, wiping away the beads of sweat that lined his forehead.

"Thanks," I muttered, practically gasping for air. We had been sparring for at least a few hours, and I was sure that if his sword pierced me, it would've been better than the prominent pain exploding from my side.

I dropped to the hard, concrete floor as he remained standing, hands rested on his thighs. "I'm quitting at the five minute mark next time," he grumbled, mumbling a string of incoherent words. "I'm going back to my room," he said after a few moments of complaining.

"You get some rest big boy—I'm destroying you next time," I smirked as his dark eyes stared into mine, a playful grin resting on his lips.

"Looking forward to it." He held out his hand, waiting for me to accept his assistance. I scoffed, standing up with minimal effort and brushing aside the gesture. "Rude," he rolled his eyes, though the twinkle in them told me he wasn't truly offended. "And as much as it absolutely pains me, I'm gonna head out. I'm too tired and you're a bit too insufferable."

"Good to know the feeling is mutual," I smirked. He lightly laughed before cupping his hands over his mouth, turning to face the other people who were still vigorously fighting.

"Training's over, get some rest! If you need more help, and I know some of you do, then stay and keep going at it! We've got a big day overmorrow and I don't feel like getting berated for any of your mistakes," he yelled, and immediately he received a chorus of yes sir's.

He returned his attention to me, putting his hand to his brow and saluting before strutting away, opening the sizable doors and disappearing down into the vestibule. People began to follow suit, filing after him as they all dispersed. Very few were left, two or three still swinging their blades through the empty air.

Unaware as to where I was supposed to go, I stayed, letting my sword pierce the sky, as it brandished around like silver wings. I practiced my slashes and stabs with a faux person, a sort of pell made of wood and metal positioned to look like a human. In that moment I let every ounce of emotion flow from my head and into my arms. I swung at it, lodging the sword in the wood.

I removed it, struck again, removed it, struck again. The repetitive practice was grueling but surprisingly effective. My anger dissipated as exhaustion overtook my mind. I didn't care for the strange looks I was getting at my display of frustration, as people slowly inched away from me.

Whether afraid of my wrath or finished with their training, they too departed from the room. I was left alone in a room with nothing but my thoughts and an excessive number of weapons. Not the world's greatest combination.

I dropped my blade, letting it clang against the concrete floor as I collapsed to the ground in heaving breaths for the second time tonight. Part of me was determined to continue, to fight against the country—the person—that exiled my best friend, that imprisoned me. But I was simply too tired to continue, and the thought of lifting a finger made me groan in fatigue.

Regardless of the uncomfortable situation, my eyes still drooped shut and sleep beckoned me to fall victim to its firm grasp. The idea of repose was my final thought before the world around me swirled black.